


Even Titans Must Fall

by The_Warden



Category: Shingeki no Kyojin | Attack on Titan
Genre: Alternate Universe - Prohibition Era, Bootlegging, Everyone is in this, F/M, Gang Wars, Gangsters, Gen, M/M, Some Humor
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2014-12-30
Updated: 2014-12-30
Packaged: 2018-03-04 07:32:07
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings, Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,772
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2992751
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/The_Warden/pseuds/The_Warden
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Prohibition is in full swing in Detroit, where The Titans have settled into the daily routine of bootlegging. However, a wrench is thrown into this routine when a new gang the media has dubbed "The Olympians," which is run by a mysterious "Teal Eyes", starts wreaking havoc on their city.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Even Titans Must Fall

**Author's Note:**

> *waves nervously* Hello, this is my first time I have ever posted a fic for the Shingeki no Kyojin fandom. I'm so excited that I've managed to get this chapter finished though. I cannot wait to get the rest of this story written! I'm super pumped about it. Feel free to find me on tumblr: thiefofalways88
> 
> Special Thanks: Alter and UnderneathTheSky for encouraging me, pushing me when I needed it, and being my betas. :D

“Asking for two kilograms was too much,” Marco says, eyeing the two large paper bags full of maple sugar taffy currently occupying the passenger seat. A rather loud sigh escapes him before continuing the conversation he’s been having with himself, “Well, I did say I wanted enough for everyone.”

He wasn’t sure what had possessed him when he told the woman at the docks that he would take two kilograms of the maple sugar taffy. She had offered it as a thank you for going on this long, dangerous rum-run to New Orleans instead of her husband. Unfortunately, when she had asked how much taffy Marco would like, he had been struggling to help her husband load an ice block full of vodka into the back of the refrigerated truck while scanning the docks for cops. It would definitely explain why he hadn’t thought about his reply, but it was anyone’s guess why “two” had been what his brain had stumbled upon.

The woman’s eyes went large at Marco’s request. “Do you all have a big sweet tooth?” she asked.

Marco absently chewed on the taffy piece she had given him earlier. “They’re delicious, I’m sure they’ll disappear quite quickly at the house.”

The woman gave Marco a warm smile, “You’re such a sweet boy.” She took his hand in hers and placed another small taffy into his palm. Marco closed his hand around the treat before the woman gently patted his enclosed fist. “You’re lucky there really is no such thing as a small batch,” she turned and headed back to her houseboat to start bagging up the taffy.

After Marco and the husband finished loading the abnormally large shipment of alcohol into the back of the ice truck, they sat down on the back bumper to take a quick breather. The two of them heard a door open and shut close-by. They looked up to see the woman coming out of the houseboat carrying two bags.

When Marco saw the huge bags, he immediately realized the mistake he had made with the kilo to pound conversion. Instead of ordering a pound and a half of taffy, Marco had asked for four pounds of taffy because he’d mixed up the fact that kilos are larger than pounds...again.

On the other hand, Marco didn’t want to insult the woman by saying he didn’t mean to ask for so much for fear of her thinking that he meant “it’s good, but it’s not _that_ good”. Marco sheepishly took the bags from her and thanked the woman for her generosity before placing them on the passenger seat.

“This’ll just last us a while,” he sighs to himself. He grips the steering wheel tight as he spots the Canadian border patrol station coming into focus down the road.

Nerves dance throughout his whole body, making his shoulders tense, and Marco can feel sparks of electricity travel down his arms to his fingertips. The sensations are making it difficult to focus on the task at hand.

Marco is already on edge because of the silly mistake that had ended with him having over four pounds of maple sugar taffy in his ice truck. He really can’t afford to make anymore mistakes on this trip. He needs to avoid getting arrested and winding up in jail in Canada. He needs to avoid getting arrested period because he doesn’t want to let The Titans down.

His stomach gives out a nervous clench as he thinks about how pleased The Commander and Levi will be with Marco if he doesn’t mess this job up. This is his first international bootlegging job for The Titans by himself… and he has to get to New Orleans in one piece.

As Marco pulls into the check station at the Canadian border, he feels his hand shake as he takes the keys out of the ignition. He hastily shoves them into his pocket to hide the tremor as he climbs out of the truck.

In a booth off to the side, Marco can see the only officer on duty, reading. He doesn’t even look up until Marco shouts,“Evening!”

The patrolman glances up from his book before giving Marco a look of disapproval, as if he is annoyed by Marco’s chipper attitude this late at night, “Evening,” he replies tersely. He flips his book closed around his thumb to mark where he stopped reading. “Are you hauling anything into the country?” The patrolman is older than Marco by about ten years but it looks like he should be older by the visible amount of grey hairs in his small sideburns.

“Yes. Ice and dry ice.” Marco clasps his hands behind his back in order to keep from fidgeting. “I’ve got to get this delivery to a fella named Birdseye by morning. He’s doing some crazy experiment trying to _flash freeze_ vegetables without depending on the weather.” Marco laughs as he shakes his head in disbelief. “I dunno what he’s trying to pull but he pays me handsomely for driving overnight.”

“I’ll have to take a look.” The patrolman groans with irritation as he stands from the stool he’d been sitting on. His brow furrows and his brown eyes grow stormy at the thought of this being a long job.

“You can try, sir,” Marco says, stepping out of the patrolman’s way as he approaches the ice truck. He merely watches the patrolman’s face drop even more as he opens the back door.

A cold blast of air comes out of the truck, blowing their hair back. The ice truck is packed tightly with large bags of dry ice in the front. The patrolman reaches up to begin his inspection.

“Don’t!” Marco shouts, he reaches out his hand, but he’s too slow to stop the patrolman from touching the bags of dry ice with his bare hand.

“Shit!” the patrolman exclaims instinctively pulls his hand away. Marco can see the patrolman’s whole palm and fingers are bright red.

Marco suppresses the urge to roll his eyes in annoyance at this idiot. He settles for fake concern before asking, “Are you okay? Dry ice burns bare skin. That’s why I have those heavy gloves in the cab of the truck.” He scratches the back of his head, ruffling his dark hair slightly. “It’s a good thing you’ve got quick reflexes, otherwise you’d have one hell of a burn.”

The patrolman gives Marco a reproachful look.

“You’re welcome to use the gloves if you really need to check the truck.” Marco reaches out to inspect the patrolman’s hand to see if the burn is as bad as it looks.

The man quickly withdraws his rough, slightly burned hand from Marco’s soft grip and glares at him. “I’ve seen all I need to. Now get out of here before I change my mind.”

Marco can see embarrassment flush the man’s face as he clenches his fists down at his sides.

“Sure thing,” Marco says, grabbing the rope to close the back of the truck. He double-checks the lock before climbing into the driver’s seat. Marco fastens his seatbelt, then sticks his head out of the window to ask the patrolman, “Can you do me a favor? Can you crank the engine while I try and turn it over? She’s a troublesome one.”

The look he receives makes it clear that Marco is pushing his luck. However, the patrolman reluctantly starts to crank the engine and within a few seconds, the engine turns over and starts to purr.

“Ah, thanks so much,” Marco says. Before the patrolman can get back into his booth, Marco has his hand out of the window proffering a maple sugar taffy with a shark-like grin on his face, “Taffy?”

****

Something is wrong. Marco feels it in his gut.  

He arches his back against the seat of the truck in a vain attempt to ease the pain of driving so long without a chance to stop and stretch. He can’t remember if he had taken a half-hour nap the last time he had stopped for gas or if it was the time before that. It has been nearly fifteen hours since he had left Canada, and he is still driving to reach his next ‘check-in’ point, a moonshine distillery on the Tennessee border. One tiny, hidden moonshine distillery, in all of Tennessee, in order to find a man that will help Marco take a shortcut to New Orleans, otherwise, the trip will be even longer and more treacherous. As if all of that wasn’t stressful enough, Marco is almost out of Tennessee and heading into North Carolina.

Marco slows down his truck in order to search among the trees for a small dirt road. He knows the distillery turn-off is coming up soon, he doesn’t want to miss it and end up having to backtrack. In the length of time it would take for Marco to turn and come back, the man who’s supposed to be waiting may just assume that Marco has been arrested.

It is nearly 3 o’clock in the afternoon, and all Marco wants is to be able to take a nap. The idea of being able to get a little shut eye after they meet up causes Marco to squint determinedly at the trees, as if it’s going to help him find the turn off faster. Up ahead, all Marco can see is a stretch of road that is about to wind around a bend of trees, but as he rounds the corner in the heavily wooded area, he sees them. The Police.

“God- fucking- _dammit!_ ” Marco exclaims, slamming his open palm against the edge of his steering wheel in outrage.

A 1928 Model T is visible around the corner as well. It looks like it had just turned onto a long dirt driveway when the police car had pulled in behind it. There is a tall, dark haired man leaning front-first against the cop car with his trench coat flapping in the wind. He has a fedora dipped over his eyes and his hands are cuffed behind his back. The cop isn’t paying Marco any attention as he drives closer, which makes him extremely grateful.

Marco is careful not to panic and drives by the scene doing the speed limit. The worst thing he could do is speed by, getting the cop’s attention. It would tip him off that the man currently handcuffed is not only hiding a moonshine distillery but was also about to get involved in a rum run.

The last thing Marco sees in his rear-view mirror before they disappear from view is the policeman shoving the man into the back of his cruiser.

He drives in angry silence now. The rest of the drive had been pleasant, if a little long and boring, whiling away the time listening to the radio all the way from Windsor to North Carolina. He knew something like this happening was always a possibility. That is the number one thing he had been taught when he was taken in by The Titans: rum running hardly ever ends well.

After several years of bootlegging with The Titans Gang, Marco knows this for a fact, but he’s never worked such a long trip all by himself before. It is terrifying to realize that he has always been able to depend on the help of others to get him out of horribly dangerous situations when a job has gone seriously wrong.

Now Marco is alone as he crosses into North Carolina and it scares him to pieces. Thankfully, he isn’t foolish enough to think he can continue driving on adrenaline alone. He needs to make a proper pitstop.

His main focus becomes finding something decent to eat. As much as he likes the maple syrup taffy, the taste is starting to turn him off of eating entirely. It’s the only thing that Marco has had to snack on this entire trip, so far.

After another mile or two, he comes upon a small diner on the side of the road. Marco pulls in,  parking his ice truck in the front of the building. The diner looks pretty deserted, which will work in his favor at this point.

He turns off the tired engine, takes the keys out of the ignition, and sticks them in his pocket as he gets out of the truck. As he slowly stands up straight, he stretches his long, lean frame, working out all the kinks from sitting for over fifteen hours in his truck. His back gives out a satisfying pop, making Marco groan with relief. He absently rubs his lower back as he opens the door to the diner and heads inside.

The diner is much like any other diner. The lighting is dim even for mid-day. The booths lining the windows have chairs that are a very loud red color. There are two square tables with wooden chairs in the middle of the floor beside the bar stools in front of the counter.

“Hello!” A chipper blonde woman greets Marco with a smile. “How can I help you?”

Marco stands in front of the counter and asks, “What kind of specials do you have?”

“We have a lamb dish with peas, sweet potatoes, a biscuit, choice of pie and drink for $.75.” She stands behind the counter with a pot of hot coffee in her right hand, waiting for Marco’s reply.

He quickly checks the left hand pocket of his jacket to see what kind of change he has. In the handful of change he pulls out, there is plenty for a meal and a phone call “I’ll have the special. Do you have a phone I can call long distance?”

The waitress uses the pencil in her left hand to point to the back as she says, “Around the corner.”  

“Thank you. I’ll be right back,” he says placing the $.75 for his meal on the countertop, as if he is making a promise to the waitress. “Coffee. Cream and sugar, please.”

The waitress hastily places her pencil behind her ear before reaching for the precariously stacked saucers and coffee mugs next to her elbow on the counter. With admirable speed and agility, she places a saucer and coffee mug onto the counter and pours the coffee without spilling a drop before Marco can reach the back of the diner.

The phone is located around the corner, past the kitchen door, and directly opposite the restroom. It looks as if it had been intentionally placed there to give people privacy while placing their call, which is exactly what Marco needs right now.

Marco puts in a coin and asks the operator to connect him to the Double Dip Bakery in Detroit.  It takes them a few minutes to make the connection, but soon there is a familiar voice on the other end of the line.

“Double Dip Bakery, Levi speaking,” the voice says with a note of irritation.

“It’s me,” Marco says, relief washing over him at hearing his mentor’s voice. If anyone can make him calm down and focus on what needs to be done, it is Levi.

“Kid?” Marco can _hear_ Levi straighten up as he is speaking. “Why are you checking in now? What happened?” Hearing the concern in Levi’s tone doesn’t exactly make Marco feel better like he was hoping it would. If Levi is worrying about him, maybe Marco is in deeper shit than he had realized.

“I saw a button slap some bracelets on Oluo’s man as I drove by,” Marco says. He doesn’t say anything more specific over the phone for the simple reason that he doesn’t want to raise suspicion, in case his voice carries into the diner.

“Shit, kid,” Levi hisses through his teeth. “Do you know how to get to New Orleans?”

Marco nods before realizing Levi can’t see him. “Yes, I’m in a diner in Asheville, North Carolina right now. I have a map for the rest of the way,” he says quietly. Marco rests his forehead against the cool surface of the wooden wall, exhaustion washing over him.

“Hey,” Levi says, sensing Marco’s disquiet. “You know what to do. Fuel up, eat up, take a nap, and get rolling. There’s no time to waste.”

Marco sighs. “Right.”

“Don’t let them catch you on Thunder Road, kid. Do whatever you need to keep from getting arrested,” Levi says his tone becoming grave. “We’re not losing another man to this run.”

“Understood. I’ll call when I get there,” Marco says, straightening up from his slouch against the wall.

“Good luck, kid.”

“Thanks. Bye, Levi.”

 

**Author's Note:**

> I hope you enjoyed the chapter!
> 
> Parting Factoids:  
> Frozen vegetables were not available for public consumption until 1930. So, when this story is taking place, Charles Birdseye, the inventor of the flash freezing process, would have been in the final stages of perfecting his process so people could buy frozen veggies. Hence, Marco's emphasis on the term "flash freezing" 'cause it's a new idea to him... well, that and he's being a convincing liar. :P
> 
> “I saw a button slap some bracelets on Oluo’s man" is just 1920s slang for "I saw a cop arrest Oluo's man."


End file.
